


Hopeless

by residentdm



Series: And Now I'd Like to Take a Bow [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Dungeons and Dragons, Gnomes, The Underdark, welcome to: fanfiction about my very own campaign
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentdm/pseuds/residentdm
Summary: Garl Glittergold meets the peculiar gnome who saved his people. He has an odd request.
Series: And Now I'd Like to Take a Bow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798657
Comments: 5





	Hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> If you're from my campaign: good job! You found my 'secret' account where I might be posting some 'character analysis' about the Strings campaign. We'll see what else pops up here. For now, enjoy this story that I've only shared a couple excerpts from.
> 
> If you're not from my campaign: good luck understanding what's going on! I wrote the thing and I'm not even sure.

Garl Glittergold, chief deity of the gnomish pantheon, the Sparkling Wit of gnome-kind, stands and waits, impatiently. He fidgets with Arumdina, his holy golden axe, as each second lumbers by; she grumbles in his hands at each movement, but says nothing. It’s been a tough while for them both.

  
At the beginning of the season, the gnomes had been living in peace, save for the odd kobold or human attack. Everything was fine; the humans were fighting amongst each other, the kobolds were as weak as ever, and the spring weather was kind to each gnomish burrow. Then, suddenly, the tides turned; their land was stolen, his people, scattered, slaughtered, and oppressed under the new human kingdom’s rule—Cypathion, he remembers with disdain. Garl wouldn’t be surprised if Cypathion’s king had Veravols himself in his ear, leading him down the path of most destruction.

  
What few free gnomes had survived were now stuck here, deep in the Underdark. This is unknown territory, a place few races had dared attempted to civilize—and where many had failed, Garl is reminded, as the dwarves’ fallen underground kingdom comes to mind. The gnomes—the deep gnomes, as they’ve begun to be called—will need to be careful to stay alive.

  
He looks to the two gods at his sides. That’s why they’re here: to protect the deep gnomes. Callarduran Smoothhands, staring solemnly ahead, and Segojan Earthcaller, already curiously inspecting what wretched fauna lives here. The two recluse gods had already sworn to stay and keep an eye on the deep gnomes, leaving Garl to focus on freeing his people on the surface. With all the pieces in place, he believes they can pull it off. He hopes, at least.

  
Finally, finally, the sound of footfalls echo down through the cave. Garl shoots a quick look at his fellow gods, and straightens up, pulling an easy smile onto his face. Showtime.

  
Wrenn Daergel Byrneschief the Hopeless steps out before the gods. His title fits well, Garl thinks; while small grins and weak jokes had begun their return as the gnomes settled into their new home, Garl still has yet to see a single smile grace the deep gnome chief’s face. That, at the very least, is the only feature gone awry; the shadows under his eyes and tattered attire fit right in with the rest of the escapees, as does the slight look of awe as the mortal takes in the three gods standing before him.

  
Recent events may not have left any of them at their best, Garl thinks, but they are still gods.

  
Garl’s grin widens, and he spreads his arms, welcoming the hero.

  
“Wrenn the Hopeless,” he announces, “as hopeless as you may be, you have somehow managed to bring a bit of hope back to gnome-kind. Your countless sacrifices and endless courage in facing the troubles that befell you speak wonders of your character—even if your grumpiness has left some unsavory reviews.”

  
Garl had no idea the mortal gnome could grimace more than he already was.

  
Now, Callarduran steps forward, hands clasped as he watches the gnome carefully. “As your people—your deep gnomes—have called upon us, we have returned your calls. Segojan and I have sworn ourselves to your side, here in the Underdark; we will protect you as closely as we protect your brethren on the surface.”

  
Segojan offers Wrenn a small smile—a ghoulish sight. “Those you’ve lost will not have died in vain. From your actions, the fate of all gnome-kind has changed; their lives will be long. Gnomes, both surface and underworld, will persist.

  
“For everything,” he continues, “we each will offer you a gift. From I, Lord of the Burrow: a light so you never lose your way in the Underdark.” Segojan passes a glowing white gemstone to Wrenn. His face is lit up as he squints down at it, then tucks it away, nodding in thanks.

  
“From I,” says Callarduran, “Master of Stone, I give you this: my emblem, to remind you of our oath to you and the world up above.”

  
Wrenn takes the golden ring, a six-pointed star embedded in its surface. He slips it on and gasps as the light of countless stars begins to fill the open air: a perfect map of the sky. He nods again, and slips the ring into his pocket.

  
“And from me,” says Garl, “Your Watchful Protector, I give you a simple offer: a wish. Anything within my power, I will give you.”

  
Wrenn, for the first time since he arrived, speaks. “Anything?”

  
Garl nods, smiling. “Anything.” Perhaps this’ll lighten the gnome’s spirit a bit.

  
Wrenn is silent. He looks back to where the budding village lies, then glances at his own hands. Finally, he turns back to Garl, and, with shocking conviction, answers: “I want you to kill me.”

  
Callarduran stumbles back a step, and Segojan freezes, caught off guard. Garl stares. “You...what?”

  
“I want you to kill me.” Wrenn says. His gaze doesn’t waver.

  
“Can he do that?” Arumdina asks from where she hangs on Garl’s back.

  
“He can’t,” Segojan replies. He turns to Garl. “You can’t.”

  
“You said anything,” Wrenn reminds him.

  
Garl swallows his surprise. “Why?”

  
Wrenn takes a moment to answer, and, for a second, Garl hopes that it is hesitation. A moment of uncertainty; a chance to change the leader’s mind. Instead of an excuse, he asks another question. “Do you know me?”

  
Garl blinks. “You’re Wrenn Daergal Byrneschief, founder of Byrnesville and leader of the deep gnomes into—”

  
Interrupting a god is on par with treason, in some pantheons, but Wrenn doesn’t seem to mind. “Not Wrenn. Before now. Do you know me?”

  
Garl thinks. He’s seen plenty of gnomes that look like Wrenn, and there’s been too many for him to personally know all of them. “...No. I don’t.”

  
Wrenn looks disappointed. Why? Has he met Garl before? Did he have some great achievement that, somehow, Garl missed out on? “I suppose...nevermind. The long and short of it is, I’ve been...around too long. My time passed a long time ago.”

  
Callarduran, having recovered, steps in. “You barely look a day over 30; you have centuries left in you!”

  
Wrenn smiles dryly. “I really hope I don’t.”

Garl stares him in the eyes. “Is this really what you want? Your greatest wish?”

  
Wrenn stares right back. “It is.”

  
“Garl,” starts Segojan, “You can’t really be considering—”

  
Garl pulls out Arumdina, her golden blade shining menacingly in the dim Underdark light. For once, she is silent, and Garl imagines she is doing just the same as him: waiting for Wrenn to give up. Instead, the mortal flinches, almost imperceivably, but says nothing. He nods, one last time, and waits as well.

  
“Garl,” seethes Segojan, “The Raven Queen will have your head if you do this—”

  
“—Not to mention Istus—” Callarduran adds.

  
“—So stop. Take back your gift; you can offer something else. Anything else. This isn’t how he’s supposed to die; I know it. You once-mortal fool, put down your blade and—”

  
Garl swings, once, right through the chest of Wrenn the Hopeless. Without a sound, Wrenn falls. Segojan’s pleading curdles into a strangled shout and a glare, which Garl takes the full brunt of without comment. He wipes the blood off his blade—his hero’s blood, his people’s blood—and faces the gnomish god of death. “Segojan, make sure his soul gets to the Golden Hills.” Segojan doesn’t answer him, simply staring. “Segojan—please. We can talk about this after…” Garl realizes Segojan isn’t staring at him, but past him. Slowly, Garl turns back around.

  
Wrenn sits up, peeling his now-bloody jacket off. He runs a hand over his chest and—there’s blood, but no wound. The gnome is clearly uncomfortable, and in pain, but he’s alive.

  
“I.” Garl, for the second time today, is speechless. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  
Wrenn shrugs. “I get that a lot.”

  
“I killed you. Did I—Arumdina, we killed him, right?”

  
His trusty axe chirps up. “Definitely killed him, boss.”

  
He points at the mortal—is he mortal?—gnome. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  
Wrenn stands up, stretching. “I wish I knew.” He turns to the gods, and Garl is taken aback by the sudden determination crossing his face. “But I do know something.”

  
“Which is?”

  
“The gods can’t kill me.” Wrenn picks up the golden ring from where it tumbled onto the floor, and slips it back in his pocket. He takes out the gemstone for a second as well, considering it, before hiding it away. “And if the gods can’t kill me, then whatever did this to me—it’s as powerful as the gods. Which, I guess would be a reasonable conclusion anyway, considering how long I’ve lived, but this—this is undeniable proof.” Wrenn pauses, and a quick, breathy laugh escapes him; a smile darts across his face. He looks—exhilarated, and Garl can only wonder as the gnome begins to take his leave. The gnome turns to face the gods one last time, and for just a moment there’s something familiar about the expression on his face, about the look in his eyes; Garl finds whispers of that same look in his memory. He wonders, suddenly, how long Wrenn has been alive; for a hundred years? A thousand? Since the very beginning? Did Garl bring him to life himself? Wrenn doesn’t answer any of Garl’s unasked questions. He nods to Garl, smiles again, and walks out.

  
The three gods, in all their divine being, stand stock still, shocked, still. Pure confusion rests on Callarduran’s face while near-terror plague’s Segojan’s. Garl finally turns to them both, and utters a simple phrase: “No one tell the Raven Queen.”

  
Another piece on the playing board; another move by an unknown player. Garl can only hope that he isn’t betting on the wrong card.


End file.
